Time Stand Still
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Fourth installment in the series that began with Rewrite This Tragedy; an interlude between the two successive New Years that are intended to comprise Ring in the True. Modern AU. A celebration of love coming round again. Serendipity, Richobel-style.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sometimes an idea takes on a life of its own. A universe begun with Rewrite This Tragedy went on to spawn the interlude Nocturne in Shadow and Light. And while I've yet to properly conclude RTT, Nocturne then gave birth to Ring in the True. And _that_ one's not finished yet either ... we've still got another New Year to celebrate. But in the interim, Isobel and Richard make some monumental changes, and it seemed odd to me to jump ahead a whole year without giving them their place. Well, that and the fact that this was originally _only_ going to be a sort of intermission, Nocturne-style, but in the process of writing it has become something more. So, here ... have a chapter - lol! The hot stuff is up next, and then we'll rejoin Ring in the True. Make sense?  
**

 **All song lyrics this chapter, as well as the title of this piece, are taken from the Rush song "Time Stand Still," written by Neil Peart.**

 **Thank you for your ongoing support!**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 _ **Time stand still  
I'm not looking back  
But I want to look around me now**_

* * *

 **April 2016**

 _It had been a whirlwind of a week. Transition meetings at the hospital, ten-hour days at the office; saying goodbye to patients, briefing the other doctors regarding the cases being handed off. The retirement do, hosted by the hospital's board of governors on Thursday night, had been a lovely thing, full of dancing and drink and laughter with longtime colleagues._

 _They had both awakened Friday morning with heads protesting the previous evening's revelry, but after strong coffee they'd got up and going in time to meet the removal vans. In the afternoon they met with their own estate agent as well as the couple who'd bought the flat and their agent to transfer ownership, effective from Saturday noon. Then it was back to the flat where she'd passed the afternoon packing away their clothing and the few remaining kitchen things and cleaning. She had insisted, above his protestations, upon scrubbing all the hard surfaces with a solution of bleach and water._

" _Broom clean, Isobel. That's all that was stipulated in the contract. We've kept this place clean enough one could eat off the floor on any given day. Don't waste your time, love!"_

 _But she'd brushed him off; she was on a mission. After a bit the chemical smell had begun to get to him so he'd popped out to the DIY shops to collect the last of the items they required for the move. If he had been vexed when he'd left, there wasn't a trace of it when he returned with takeaway from the Indian place round the corner. "We'll be hard pressed to find a curry like this in Newton," she'd told him as they stood at the kitchen counter to eat. "One of few things I'll really miss about the city. But I can't wait for tomorrow."_

 _It was a wondrous thing moving for good into a house they already owned and which was already nearly fully furnished. They'd offloaded the majority of the flat's contents on their coworkers and patients, and the removal vans had delivered the remainder to local charity shops, so that only a handful of furnishings would be going up with them the next day._

* * *

 _ **I let my skin get too thin  
I'd like to pause  
No matter what I pretend  
Like some pilgrim who learns to transcend  
Learns to live  
As if each step was the end**_

* * *

It's going on midnight when he, through with patching nail holes in the walls and carrying boxes to the Rover, pulls her away from scrubbing the lavatory floor on her hands and knees.

"Come on then ... sit down before you fall down. We've a long day tomorrow. There's not a thing we've forgotten, between the two of us. Now come and have a cup of tea and then it's off to bed." He leads her by the hand and makes her sit down on the bed, pressing a mug into her hands. She accepts it gratefully, sinking back into the pillows where they rest against the headboard and closing her eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asks, sitting down beside her.

"Oh, yeah," she assures him, blinking prettily with kind, tired eyes. "Yeah, absolutely. If anything I'm amazed it's gone so smoothly. Moving house is meant to be fresh hell."

He hums his agreement. "I'm sure it helps that we've so little to do here, comparatively. And there's the fact that it was a cash sale …"

"I still can't believe we were able to fetch ten percent above asking," she interjects. "We couldn't have asked for a better outcome! Tying up loose ends at the hospital has been the hardest part …"

"And even that's behind us now," he adds. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" He leans his shoulder against hers.

She grins brightly, if wearily, giving an emphatic nod. "I'd go up tonight if there weren't so many things to do on that end - lighting the pilot and checking the chimneys and getting petrol for the generator. I'm sure it must seem odd, how unsentimental I am about leaving here—"

"Not to me, it doesn't," he interrupts, brushing the hair back away from her face. "Odd was, in my mind, your insistence on doing a deep cleaning when it isn't needed. But I've never known you to do anything without a reason …" He leaves his observation open-ended; she can reply or not. "Say, I think it's warm enough tonight we can open these windows; air the place out." He gets up to open the windows that face the street.

"Is it that bad?" she asks. He wrinkles his nose and she laughs. "I'm sorry, love," she tells him earnestly. "I suppose I felt it needed to be done because … well, it was catharsis, in a way. Closing a chapter. This place, this … this _city,_ has never felt like home to me, Richard. Manchester was home for such a very long time. Two thirds of my life I was there. It was love and family and everything good to me. And then Reggie was gone and it was just too hard to be surrounded by reminders of him; us; our life. So I came here. And it's lovely, is Notting Hill. Truly. Taking the job as head of Obstetrics at St. Mary's was precisely the right career move, and something I'll always be proud having done. But Matthew was never really _here_ with me, and the memories I do have are all around … well …" her voice breaks and she presses a fist against her chest, " … losing him."

* * *

 _ **Freeze this moment  
A little bit longer  
Make each sensation  
A little bit stronger  
Experience slips away**_

* * *

He's aware that she hasn't finished, but he slides in behind her, pulling her back to rest against his chest and smoothing his hands along her arms. He holds her silently, pressing tiny kisses to her temple when she turns her head to look at him.

"It's not to say that you and I haven't had some good times here, but when I think of _us_ and _home,_ I always think of Newton. I can't imagine why it took me so long to say yes when you asked me to move up there."

"Well, I knew there was no chance you'd say no," he says. "Come on, let's get under the covers." They turn them back and she is first to slip beneath them. He relishes the happy sigh that passes her lips as she lies down, and he climbs in and lies on his side, sliding his hand round her thigh to pull her leg between both of his.

She reaches out, smoothing her palm across his bare back. _Oh, yes,_ she thinks, a smile gracing her lips as her eyes slip shut at the feel of him. _This is what I_ _ **need**_ _._

He continues, "You needed to buy into it. And I knew that you would, given time, or I'd never have suggested it."

She nods, her eyes still closed. She is content to listen to his voice, loving the way she can _feel_ it where she touches him.

"I think I needed to be sure that I wasn't running from anything - reminders of Matthew or a fear of facing additional losses. Ultimately I couldn't live with myself if I were to do that, however appealing the prospect may have seemed at certain moments."

"And what have you concluded?" he asks, his thumb tracing circles on her hip. "I don't think I know this, actually. I'm sure I could guess, but I want to hear it from the horse's mouth."

She gives him a look somewhere in between amused and perplexed. "Thanks … I think. Just mind you don't go acting like a horse's _arse!_ " She swats his bottom playfully and he grins against her mouth as he kisses her. "No, I think," she tells him, "I think that this year, the way it's played out, has shown me that everything I really want - the thing I can't live without - is right in front of me. Loving and being loved by you, truly being _known,_ that's a gift. That it's come along at a point in both of our careers when we'd have been looking at retirement anyhow makes it obvious: _this is our time._ But enough of me … what is it you're most looking forward to now?"

"That's one hell of a bombshell to drop and then change the subject, young lady," he chuckles, stroking the tender skin behind her knee.

"Humour me," she whispers, affected by his touch.

"The quiet," he answers, "the space. The slower pace of life that far from the city. It puts me in mind of the way I was brought up. How about you?"

She feathers her fingers through his hair. "Oh, so much … the light, the openness. The smells of mock orange and freshly-mown grass, and the birds that come to the garden all year round. The way that every memory I have attached to that house is a happy one."

He sits up just long enough to switch off the light, then settles back down beside her. "I fancy being a proper landowner, with all it entails. Not just playing one at the weekends. You know how it was … I'd just get going on a project and we'd be made to turn round and come back."

"Mmm," she agrees. "I love it that you have the skill for that sort of work; that you enjoy it. And I'm happy we won't have to board the lad any longer. That he'll have the freedom to run like a hound should do." As if on cue, MacTavish pushes his nose through the crack in the door and jumps up on the bed. "Yes, hello. Did you hear Mum talking about you?" She accepts a kiss from him and he sidles up to Richard, wagging his tail. "Although I will want to install some sort of wireless perimeter fence, just to be safe …"

"Isobel," he chides her gently, "all in good time, love. You've _got_ to get some rest now."

"I know," she replies. "I'm sorry. I'm rather like a child at Christmastime. I'll settle down now, I promise."

"It's alright," he tells her. He whistles at the dog. "Oi. Lie down, chap." MacTavish turns himself round in circles and curls up at the foot of the bed. Richard turns his attention back to his wife. "Can I hold you, darling?"

" _Yes."_ She smiles, kissing him. " _Please."_ She turns in his arms so that her back touches his chest. His arm comes round her, his hand snaking up under the hem of the nightshirt she wears (an out-sized University of Edinburgh t-shirt of his that she's appropriated) to rest on the warm bare skin of her abdomen. She loves the way he _fits_ against her. The dog is on the bed, the hour ungodly late, but still she feels the slow burn. _Wanting him._ She focuses on breathing, on listening to him breathe.

"Have I said how much I love you this evening?" he asks, his burr thick in his fatigued state.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to stretch back against him. "You know I never tire of hearing it." She weaves her fingers through his.

"I love you, Isobel. Pleasant dreams, my beauty." He is nearly asleep already, poor soul. The week has taken more out of him than she realized. Her longing can take a backseat to compassion for one more night, she reckons.

* * *

 _ **I let my past go too fast  
No time to pause  
If I could slow it all down  
Like some captain  
Whose ship runs aground  
I can wait until the tide  
Comes around**_

* * *

"Pleasant dreams, darling. I love you." In a matter of seconds, his breathing becomes deep and even. She is running on pure adrenaline now, her body so starved for sleep that she doesn't know how she hasn't collapsed. But her mind won't be silenced.

She has _retired,_ something she'd never have believed in a million years she would do. It's as if it had literally never occurred to her that one day she might not practise medicine full time any longer, so long has she been at it. She has been known as a hard driver, a go-getter, always in motion because while she is busy there is no time for her mind to wander. It was the reason she had thrown herself into private practise after Reggie had died. _Keep going; don't feel._ Don't notice the gaping emptiness in her heart, the half of her soul gone missing. It was only after meeting Richard that she'd begun to realise that her pain wasn't being subsumed at all; only deferred. And then had come the feelings of regret … if only she had slowed down to appreciate what she and Reggie had. She still could not have saved him, but perhaps she'd have let go of silly arguments; held him closer, kissed him longer. _Loved him better._ Would that have been possible? She loved him as well and as thoroughly as she knew how to do at fifteen, and twenty, and thirty, and they were ridiculously happy. But now …

Now that she has Richard, now that she has _lived,_ having facilitated the first breaths of thousands as well as having watched more than she cares to remember slip irretrievably into death, there is _so much_ _more_ to love than she ever knew existed a lifetime ago. The tiny details one misses in the daily rush - the arresting blue of his eyes and the trill of his burr, the blessed mystery of arms that reach to hold her in the night once again - these are the moments not to miss; the memories that cannot be made without stepping back and slowing down.

When she does so, she is overwhelmed. How can love _be_ like this? Was it always so profound, or are she and Richard unusually well matched, atypically attuned to one another? These are the puzzles that are hers to work out now. Now that her time is her own, her attentions undivided.

 _Slow down, and take it in._ The evidence is all around her: she is not alone, never again. His breath coming in warm puffs against the back of her neck. The rasp of his moustache against her skin. His body enveloping hers. She realises, just before the blissfulness of sleep takes her under, that she is breathing in time with him. His heart beats steady and strong; she can feel it where his chest touches her back. _**This is**_ _ **life**_ _ **.**_

* * *

 _ **Make each impression  
A little bit stronger  
Freeze this motion  
A little bit longer  
The innocence slips away ...**_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This was actually all that I envisioned this fic being. The inspiration is an old song. I say "old" because it came out when I was ten and that was ... some time ago! The song is "A Few Good Things Remain," written by Jon Vezner and Pat Alger and recorded by Vezner's wife Kathy Mattea. Country music typically does nothing for me, but this song! I loved it at the time and I love it even more now, having lived enough to understand what it means.  
**

 **You'll notice a steep climb in the rating this chapter. We are now in solid M territory. I've been writing an awful lot of fluffy stuff with cute, flirty edges and it's been a long time since I've let my babes come out to play.**

 **What more can I say? They made me do it. Happy Valentine's Day!**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 _ **I heard a siren late last night  
You must have felt me shiver**_

* * *

She doesn't know how she got here, doesn't recognize the street corner beyond the fact it isn't located in Notting Hill. The sun is low on the horizon, the sky painted impossibly vivid shades of purple and orange, and she's brought MacTavish for a walk. She is tired but happy, her heart filled with the sort of joy she last remembers feeling at the birth of her grandson.

What it is that causes her to look at the car as it approaches the traffic signal, she can't be sure. There is nothing remarkable about it; a black BMW 5 Series is commonplace in this city. It is as it comes to a stop at the light that she recognises the driver. The window rolls down.

"Mother!" calls the driver, waving at her. His eyes are iridescent blue, his smile radiant.

 _Matthew._

She opens her mouth to call out to him.

A guttural cry is torn from her lips instead as in an instant, before her very eyes, a transit van speeds through the red signal, slamming head-on into the BMW and bursting into flames.

The front end of her son's car is completely destroyed. She tries to run to him but falls to her knees in the street. Emergency vehicles are arriving in droves - police, medics, the fire brigade, their sirens drowning her screams.

* * *

 _ **Shaken by a wave of fright  
That you calmed with a whisper**_

* * *

The sirens awaken Richard with a start. They are an unusual presence in this section of the city; uncharacteristically loud with all of the bedroom windows open. In the time it takes to register emergency vehicles rocketing down the street, he becomes aware of a more alarming scenario: beside him Isobel is sobbing, murmuring incomprehensibly as her head tosses this way and that on the pillow.

 _No. Dear God,_ _ **no!**_ He'd thought she was finally free of these. He switches the light on. Taking hold of her shoulders, he jostles her vigorously. "Isobel. Isobel, wake up. Wake up, darling. It's alright." He repeats it in variations until her eyes open and lock on his.

"It's alright, beauty. It's over."

"Richard!" She launches herself into his open arms. His heart breaks when he feels her trembling, her breaths coming far too rapidly. The sirens clamour in the distance. "It was a dream?" She clutches at his shoulders, desperation in her eyes.

"Yes, darling. _Yes._ Only a dream. You must have heard the sirens. You're safe. I'm here."

"Arrrgh!" she groans, collapsing against his chest.

"Breathe, love. It's all over." He runs his fingers through her hair, murmuring soothingly, continuously, until her shuddering subsides and she sits up next to him, leaning into his side.

"Are you alright now?" He kisses her forehead.

She nods. "It _would_ have to happen one more time before we leave, wouldn't it?" A mirthless chuckle, a rueful shake of her head. "Would you mind terribly shutting those now?"

"Of course, darling." He makes short work of closing the windows, returning swiftly to her side.

"He spoke to me this time," she tells him quietly, hugging her knees to her chest. "He stopped at the signal and called out to me. ' _Mother,'_ he said. And I looked into his eyes. Ohh, those eyes …" a long pause, and then, "I never did get to answer him."

"Oi." His voice is soft but firm, and he pulls her back into his arms, against his chest, not allowing her to retreat into herself. " _Do not_ let this rattle you, Isobel. It has no bearing on your moving forward. It was a dream. A terrible one, meant to make you question your progress and to rob you of your joy. But a dream nonetheless. Don't give it another thought."

* * *

 _ **And fear gave way to better things ...  
And sweeter dreams**_

* * *

Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her firmly. It takes her a moment, but she begins to respond. His lips are soft; insistent, his hand moving to her hip to pull her into his lap. She straddles him and he palms her bottom, bringing her right against him. After several minutes she breaks away, breathless, smiling.

He reaches out, brushing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, his eyes asking the silent question.

She nods emphatically, reaching for his hands, twining their fingers together. "Oh, yes," she says assuredly. "Yes. _This._ Yes!"

They kiss and her hands are on his face, the backs of her fingers tracing the slight stubble on his cheeks. She revels in the rasp of it, the sounds he makes that reverberate through his chest into her own where their bodies meet. His breath, punctuated by kisses, is hot on her cheeks, her throat. _He_ is her reality - her present and future - as his hands travel up under her nightshirt, lifting the hem past her hips, his warm palms on her skin chasing the nightmare away.

"Take it off," she gasps, raising her arms above her head. As he lifts the garment off, his fingertips caress all the skin they come in contact with. She is bare beneath, and she does not avert her gaze, watching as his eyes roam over her body. She can feel his reaction against the inside of her thigh through his pajama trousers and she slides her hands round his shoulders and down his back, pressing herself against his chest, pulling him to her until skin meets skin.

* * *

 _ **Like a warm spring rain  
On the roof above  
The way you call my name  
When we make love**_

* * *

" _This_ is real," she breathes, giving him the feeling that she's speaking the words at the very instant they become a thought. He is warm, warm, warm as her fingers travel across his back and shoulders.

"Always," he rasps, the sincerity in his eyes bringing tears to her own. She lays her head on his shoulder and they remain that way for a time; holding one another, being held. With her lips against the pulse in his throat she can feel his essence. He is alive. Real. _Hers._ Not for the first time tonight she is reminded that there is a rhythm to existence … from the simplicity of the inhale and exhale, blood moving through veins, to the me-and-then-you of conversation, and the anticipatory rush of his skin on hers. The way that the deepest grief she has felt has been answered with a love that cannot be contained.

Lightning flashes in the distance, followed in short order by the low rolling rumble of thunder. She glances excitedly up at him when raindrops begin to pelt against the roof.

"You'll sleep well," he remarks, smoothing the backs of his fingers across her forehead. She nods, smiles, returns to the warm place where his neck and shoulder meet. Kisses him there, sucking at the skin, nipping his Adam's apple.

When she raises her head once more to look into his eyes, she strokes his face. "I love you," she whispers. "Thank you."

"For …?" He doesn't think he's done anything that merits recognition; he is simply responding to her needs because he loves her.

She smiles softly, kissing him. "Just … thank you. You think it's insignificant, the way you care for me. Well, it's not. I've never felt this close to anyone, Richard." _Her eyes, her eyes!_ So honest and pure and completely disarming.

"Neither have I, Isobel." Now it is she who is cut to the quick by the vulnerability of the man she loves. He has never shared his heart like this, and she knows it to be true because he has told her so but even if he hadn't, the sincerity with which he looks at her now tells her all she needs to know.

She draws him back to her, kissing him searchingly, his lips opening under her own. His hands move to cup her breasts, holding the warm weight of them, and her mouth forms a perfect 'O' as she arches into his touch. He lingers as her hips begin to undulate, grinding against him as he teases her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. She cries out, sounding loud to her own ears, but she can't be troubled to care when he touches her this way.

His tongue circles one stiff peak and she sucks in a breath in anticipation. He waits, teases, his hot mouth sucking on the curves of her breasts until her head falls back and he hears her whispering, "Please, oh please … God, please …"

"Isobel," he says huskily, getting her to look at him, into his eyes. Keeping his gaze fixed on hers he closes his lips around her nipple, rolling it against the roof of his mouth.

 _How can anything feel so good?_ She exhales a long, "Ohh, God!," writhing in his lap. She wonders, her mind rapidly losing its capacity for higher thought, whether she sounds terribly wanton to her husband. By the way he surges against her _(Right there,_ _**right there!**_ _Why does he still have so many clothes on?)_ she concludes that it's not an issue. She cannot help herself. Never has she felt so feminine, so desired.

When she is breathless, beyond control of word or thought, he sits her back against the headboard, a nest of pillows cradling her back, her bottom. He kisses first one knee and then the other, his fingertips tracing patterns across the tops of her thighs, moving inward, toward her centre. The muscles of her abdomen tighten in anticipation when he caresses the juncture where her thigh meets her buttock.

"Shall I?" he asks. There is gentility in the question, in his eyes, but there is also hunger.

"Oh …" She blushes furiously. She is not averse to this, but still it astounds her that he would _want_ to. He touches her as he waits for her answer, circling ever closer to the place she most wants him, where _he_ wants to be. She watches his eyes on her body, his singular focus, and when he shifts his gaze to hers she nods vigourously.

Her knees part for him and he moves between her legs, kissing her lips, waiting until she deepens the kiss. "I want you, my beauty," he rasps against her skin as his lips move over her collarbones, lingering at the hollow between them. The sound that escapes her lips when she hears his words is somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and when he reaches her navel she trembles expectantly. At long last he touches her _there,_ opening her gently, slowly dragging the tip of his finger through her folds.

"So wet," he observes with fascination. "You've been ready for a while now, haven't you?"

Not trusting her voice, she nods, blinking at him as if in a daze.

"How long?" He presses the heel of his hand against her mound, holding her there, on edge. She groans in frustration, rolling her hips into his hand, searching for the pressure she needs. He does not relent. "Isobel, I said, _how long?_ "

Realizing he's not about to let it go, she gives in. "Since we went to bed. Earlier than that."

"And you didn't say anything? Isobel! Whyever didn't you tell me?" He sits up, taking her hands in his.

"Darling, you were shattered! It would have been selfish of me to …" Her cheeks flush beautifully pink. "I wouldn't have felt right about it."

"I love you for that," he tells her, "and I'll grant I was done in, but next time do tell me, yeah? There are plenty of things we could have done about it. I hate to think of you suffering when I'm right next to you."

She giggles. "' _Suffering'_ … love, I was hardly suffering. In fact it made for some lovely dreams … well, prior to _that one."_

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"Yes, darling, next time I'll tell you, alright?" He kisses her, satisfied with her answer.

"So those 'plenty of things' you speak of, are they still at my disposal? I haven't missed my chance, have I?"

He nuzzles her nose, kisses her lips again. "Never," he breathes, and it raises gooseflesh on her skin. Kissing his way down her midline, he resumes touching her, tracing through her folds, finding her wondrously slick. She is so ready for him that every movement of his fingers has her gasping, and when he slips first one and then a second inside her muscles clench him hard and she cries out. She wants to hold on, but at last he is right where she has needed him to be and his touch is _so right,_ inside and out and everywhere and she is so swollen and sensitive.

He wants to taste her, but she's been teetering on the edge for hours and there is such a sense of ' _Oh, God, finally'_ in her movements, her erratic breaths and the contraction of her sex that it's enough now to watch her, to touch her, to listen as she murmurs his name and God's and ' _Don't stop.'_

"That's it," he breathes, nipping at her throat as her back arches. He presses up hard inside her and feels her tighten even further, her entire body tensing as she sucks in a breath and holds it.

"Don't fight it," he whispers, pressing the palm of his other hand against her abdomen. That's all it takes and she comes hard, keening out a long, loud wail.

He doesn't let her go as she recovers, riding out the aftershocks with his fingers still buried deep inside her. He kisses her nipples, her belly, and when her breathing evens out he presses his lips to her centre, lapping at her folds. Her whole body buzzes with a tingling warmth that spreads outward from the place where he kisses her, and in no time she is strung tight again.

She grasps at his shoulders, pulling him up to her. Kissing his hot mouth, tasting herself on him. He is cradled between her thighs and she pushes his pajama bottoms and shorts down his hips, first with her hands and then, when she can no longer reach that way, with her feet. She groans in frustration when they get bunched up at his knees and he watches her; laughs.

"Easy, love," he whispers, moving off the bed to rid himself of the offending garments. This time it is he who watches her dark eyes rake over his form. It is a heady thing, to be wanted at his age, and by such a woman as this. The one who reclines before him with eyes full of love, her chest beautifully flushed in the wake of orgasm.

He takes himself in hand briefly and she whimpers. He is _beautiful,_ hard for her _(for her!)_ and she shivers, knowing how good he will feel inside her, every nerve ending standing at attention already. She shivers again when he returns, when he is back between her legs, pushing at her shoulders. Getting her to lie down. It's an altogether opposite sensation to the tremors wrought by that most terrifying dream, she thinks, chuckling when she realises it's already a distant memory. _Oh, the wonders he has done for her!_ She whispers that against his skin as he settles over her, and it's the most beautiful thing: they are _laughing,_ the both of them, as he enters her.

She is so sensitive that the hot slide of him into her body is all it takes and she comes again, with less force than before but for longer, and she loves it that she can feel the way he surges within her in response to the contractions of her sex. She has never felt this depth of physical _need_ before, and once more laughter bubbles over, the joy in her heart no longer capable of being contained.

 _So_ _ **this**_ _is retirement, eh?_ She is sixty-two years old and she's having the best sex of her life with the husband whose love found her when love was the very last thing she had believed she would ever know again.

And now her _whole job_ is to love him and to enjoy being the object of his affection for as many days as are left to them on this earth.*

As if reading her thoughts, he whispers against her skin as he moves inside of her. "Retirement looks good on you, my wife. My beautiful, beautiful girl."

And oh! but she _is_ beautiful, her body soft beneath him and so wonderfully wet, exquisitely tight around him. The way she moves for him, meeting him thrust for thrust, squeezing her inner muscles down on him. Her breathy sighs and murmurs of love, her keening cries as he moves deeper, harder, and her ankles lock behind his back, her thighs clamped round his waist.

She reaches down between them, touches him where they are joined. "Come for me, darling," she tells him, blinking up at him through long, dark lashes.

" _Jesus, Isobel!"_ How can he refuse? She lifts her hips to take him even deeper and he loses control, rutting against her until he comes with a shout. She touches his face, wiping the sweat from his brow as he floods her with a rush of heat.

 **oOo**

It goes unspoken now that he will stay with her, in her, until his body simply can't do it any longer. When he slips from her he lies down, pulling her tight against him. Everything will change in the morning, as they part ways with London and leave their careers behind. They should be sleeping, but there is too much excitement, too much to look forward to. It is ages before they drop off to sleep, the interim filled with more kisses and caresses and exclamations of joy about what lies on their horizon. Grief and loss have had their season. Lives have been brought to fruition by their hands, and in the midst of it all their love has blossomed.

And now love shall have its day.

* * *

 _ **While the world outside my window goes insane  
You're here to remind me  
A few good things remain**_

* * *

 ***I feel it necessary to disclaim, in light of past flames over my characterisation of Isobel, that in no way do I see her existing solely to cater to Richard's every whim. I think it's quite obvious that he isn't the sort of man who would ever dream of treating a woman that way either, least of all Isobel. She's suffered a lot, hasn't she? And she's worked hard to build a life for herself from the ashes, but by and large she's been alone; singly devoted to her career, and as satisfying as it's been she's missed being loved. My point is, quite simply, that the tide is changing.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: It's getting harder to know whether to continue. The fandom is fading; interest is waning. But those who do still read and who are reviewing say they'd like to see more, so for now, here we are.**

 **This one is schmaltzy-sexy-sweet, and one of the scenes herein has been written in my mind since last summer. It needed just the right context, and at last that context has presented itself.**

 **Music credits this chapter: the first song mentioned is "Crazy Love" by Van Morrison. Longstanding feels, particularly from the version where he does a duet with Ray Charles. The second is "The Finer Things," written by Steve Winwood and Will Jennings and recorded by Steve Winwood.**

 **The PW quote is from the post-show talk she gave for Taken at Midnight at the Minerva Theatre on October 16, 2014. The talk in its entirety is available on YouTube and is a treat to listen to.**

 **Please do drop me a line if you're still reading.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

The kisses that awaken Richard are not those of his wife. She is not in the habit of standing on his chest and bumping her cold, wet nose into his chin. He opens one eye cautiously and is greeted by the sight of a furry face inches from his own.

"Yes, alright, lad. I'm up. Where's Mum, eh?" MacTavish wriggles excitedly, unable to decide between jumping into Richard's arms or bounding toward the kitchen. His master makes the decision for him. "Oi. Settle down. Off the bed with you."

Richard rises from the bed, stripping the linens and folding them. MacTavish sits by the door and watches, his tail thumping expectantly.

"Alright. Let's go find Mumma. Easy now." At his master's caution, MacTavish trots gingerly toward the kitchen. Richard chuckles.

When he reaches the doorway, he pauses. The scene before him is one he won't soon forget. Isobel is stood at the range with her back to him, wearing the lavender satin dressing gown he loves for the way it skims her curves and ends just above the knee, exposing her shapely calves. Music is playing and she sings along softly. She is unguarded, all soft and pure, and it's during moments like this that he praises the higher powers he held out for so long, that he married _this woman_ at this time of life.

"I know you're there, Major." She calls out to him without turning round. She waits. It's worth it; by the time he steps up behind her, the anticipation of his touch has her skin tingling.

"Good morning, beauty." His voice is husky, traces of sleep still lingering, and the sound sends a thrill up her spine. "I'd have thought I'd beat you to it this morning, after …"

She turns in his arms, blushing prettily at the memory of how they passed the wee hours. "Yes, well, someone had other ideas." She looks pointedly at MacTavish, who has been sat at her feet watching the both of them. "We've been for a walk," she continues, "and he's had his breakfast so don't fall for the sad story. It's alright though; I've showered already and packed away most of the last-minute things. And there are croissants from Tregeser's there on the side, and the coffee's just finished so you can have the first cup. I'm just using up the last of the eggs in the fridge. They'll be ready momentarily."

"Splendid," he remarks, catching her about the waist. "But first …" He presses his lips to hers, kissing her soundly. Winding a hand into his hair, she melts against him, allowing him to deepen the kiss as his hands settle on her hips.

When they break apart she is breathless, her lips swollen. "What was that for?" she asks breathily, smiling up at him.

He shrugs, tracing the length of her spine through the slippery satin. "Do I need a reason? Because you feel good, and you smell divine. And you made me breakfast." When she giggles and steps closer, the tips of her fingers dancing over his rib cage, he continues. "I could ask you the same, you know. What's all this for?" He gestures, indicating the trouble she's gone to on this very busy morning.

"Do I need a reason?" she echoes, her eyes sparkling. "Because I love you, and last night was …" She shakes her head in wonder, reaching up to kiss him again. "And it all begins today, doesn't it?" She is quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and he watches as a myriad of emotions pass across her face. "I'm sure you must think me terribly fanciful, but I really do see this as a new lease of life. It's going to be so good for us."

"Fanciful is the last thing I think you are," he tells her.

"Is that right? Here, these are ready." She switches off the hob and scoops a forkful of egg from the pan, feeding it to him. "Will they do?"

He nods emphatically. "Delicious. Forty years I spent cooking for myself and I still don't understand how you get eggs to taste like this."

She smiles softly. "Thanks. I've loads of experience fixing them for my lot over the years. I'd say, 'sit down,' but, well …" she gestures to the empty space, her eyes betraying barely-contained excitement. "I still can't believe it's _today!_ "

He pours coffee for the both of them, then reaches round her. "It was fine last night and it'll suffice for this morning as well. Eat." He feeds her a forkful. "You don't, you know. Eat properly. You flit about when you get preoccupied and you eat like a bird."

She eyes him with interest as she sips her coffee. "Do I? Good job I've got you to look after me then. Back to what you were saying … I'm not fanciful?" They take turns feeding one another, leaning against the side as the music continues to play.

It's his turn to shake his head, incredulous. "Nope. _Determined_ is what you are. You don't let anything drop, case in point. And selfless, oftentimes to your own detriment. If there's one thing I hope you learn in retirement it's that it's all right to prioritise yourself above others every now and then."

Taking a step back, she folds her arms across her chest. His assessment of her is on point, so much so that it makes her squirm a little, but it's the reason she fell in love with him; he can read her like a book, like no one else has ever done. He knows her far better than she knows herself.

He senses her discomfort and draws her close, smoothing his hands over her shoulders. "That wasn't meant as a slight," he says gently.

She looks at him, sliding her palms across his chest until they rest near his heart. "No, I know. I know. I asked. And I'd certainly prefer to hear it from you over anyone else. It's just … accurate. And it brings me to something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Of course, love. Can I get you more coffee?"

"God, yes. Thanks. So, I don't know whether you'll have experienced the same, but they all kept asking me - everyone at the hospital - what I was going to do with myself once I retired." She tries - and almost succeeds - to refrain from rolling her eyes.

It's adorable, and it makes him smirk. "I heard a bit of it, but you know me. I always kept a pretty low profile. And I think it's also due in part to your being a woman. I know you hate that and so do I, but the fact remains that it's there. Anyhow …"

"Absolutely ridiculous that it's even an issue in 2016! Anyhow …" she echoes, sipping her coffee and willing her ire to settle. "It got me thinking: I've spent so much of my life _doing_ that I've missed out on simply _being._ And now I've …" She trails off, the eyes that had held such fire a moment before suddenly soft, almost shy.

He moves so that he stands toe-to-toe with her, lifting her chin until their eyes meet. "And now you've _what?_ "

"Now I've got somebody whom I very much enjoy just _being_ with. Work has had us right out straight for the whole of our relationship. I mean, we've never had a proper honeymoon, and here it is closing in on our second anniversary."

She pauses to set the cooking utensils and empty cups in the sink and fills it with water. Then she turns back to him, leaning back against the side and settling her hands on his hips. "Forgive me if this sounds maudlin, but I think you'll understand: when my time is up, I won't be kicking myself for not having worked another ninety-hour week. But if I could have had one more morning lying in your arms, feeling your heartbeat and listening to you breathe … If I could have sat beside you and watched one more sunset, or listened to you read Burns to me by the fire … If I could have in any way loved you better; longer, and I missed it … I've already done that once. Twice, actually." She looks at him with fire in her eyes once more, her shoulders set. "I'll not do it again."

"Sweet girl," he whispers, pulling her into his arms, their foreheads resting together. He waits, holds her. Knows she's got to work through her thoughts. He has been here, has felt what she's feeling for some time now, but she had to get there on her own. Because now that it's her idea, she'll own it, and when Isobel gets a bee in her bonnet heaven help the fool who tries to stand in her way. "I know you love me."

She smiles softly. "Do you?" He nods. "Those little moments, the ones we're so quick to dismiss, they're the substance of love. We miss them - _I_ miss them - when we get caught up in schedules and agenda and always having to do something. And I'm not for a moment suggesting I'm ready for the rocking chair …"

"Never!" He chuckles as he washes the breakfast things, passing them to her to dry.

"... But would you think me very foolish if I took some time? I know there's work for us up there if we want it, and if you wanted to get involved straightaway then I think you should. I will eventually, but it's not what I need right now." She waits for a beat and his eyes meet hers. "You are."

He scoops up a dollop of soap suds and plops it onto the tip of her nose. She shrieks and wipes it away, swatting his backside with the tea towel. "You see," she giggles, "this is what I'm talking about!"

The washing up finished, he winds his arms round her waist, drawing her close. "You're brilliant, d'ye know that? I never did finish saying what you are to me. Absolutely brilliant, for one. I've had a lifetime of the grind, and only a couple of years with you. I thought medicine was all I wanted out of life. Then one day I looked up, and there you were." He kisses her soundly. "It turns out I was wrong. Let's live like newlyweds, eh? Shall we start right now?" She nods, her eyes smiling.

"C'mere," he tells her as the radio plays. His voice is soft and husky as she moves against him, her arm round his neck and her other hand enfolded in his, his free hand on her hip. "Listen, love. Dance with me."

 _ **I can hear her heartbeat for a thousand miles  
And the heavens open every time she smiles  
And when I come to her that's where I belong  
Yet I'm running to her like a river's song**_

They have four hours to vacate the flat. He needs to hitch the trailer to the Land Rover and they still have to load up their bed and the last of the boxes. She won't be satisfied until she scrubs the kitchen one last time.

But for the moment, they dance. She lifts her chin and kisses him with aching slowness, choking back a sob when his hand moves beneath the satin of her dressing gown to rest over her heart.

 _ **She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love  
She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love**_

"Did you know that this is my Isobel song?" he asks as he nibbles her earlobe.

"Is it?"

"Aye. Puts me in mind of you every time I hear it. It always has done."

She grins at him, her eyes bright. "Dozy beggar." She runs the backs of her fingers across his cheek. "No, its lovely. Really?"

He nods his head, buried as it is in the hollow of her collarbones. He kisses his way back to her lips. "When I say I've never been in love before, I mean it. I suppose I thought I was, a time or two, but once I met you that was it."

"Is that why you never dated anyone in all the years we were friends? God knows … I could never understand how a bloke like you hadn't been snatched up centuries ago. You were waiting for me all that time? Richard, you should have said!"

"It's not so much that I was waiting for you. That assumes I thought I had something you needed. You see, you never _needed,_ Isobel. If ever anyone were strong enough to make it on her own, it was you. It was more like … once we met, I saw that you were everything I wanted, and anyone else would have been a poor substitute. If friends were all we'd ever been it still would have been more than I'd ever dared to dream. And your heart wasn't yours to give then…"

"Yeah," she says softly. It hurts just a little to know that she was still in mourning for Reggie when she and Richard met. She regrets the years they might have had, and then in the next breath she feels ashamed that her devotion to her first love is something she would ever regard as a burden. "But you know," she thinks aloud, "in actuality I _did_ have you then. You were - _and you still are_ \- the closest friend I've ever had. And now here we are." A look of wonder crosses her features.

"And now here we are," he agrees with a grin. "Dancing in the kitchen of an empty flat, both of us half undressed, with just a couple of hours till we've got to clear off. I've got to shower, and hitch up the trailer, and—"

"Oh, come on Major! Stay with me!" She protests. "One more song. This was your idea and it's perfect. Listen to this one! They're playing it just for us I think." She bats her eyes at him and he concedes, pulling her tighter against himself.

 _ **While there is time  
Let's go out and feel everything  
If you hold me  
I will let you into my dream  
For time is a river rolling into nowhere  
We must live while we can  
And we'll drink our cup of laughter**_

"You know, the way I see it, we've not missed out on anything," he tells her as they sway together, his palms resting where her back meets the curve of her bottom.

"No?" She smooths her hands over his shoulders and lets her fingers wander up and down the length of his spine. "How's that?"

"Most people fall in love at really inopportune times. Have you ever noticed?" She eyes him with an amused expression. "No, listen ... it's always just as somebody's off to university, or has got a new job. So then the relationship is left jockeying for priority, because one can't have it all, not all at once. Somewhere along the line something suffers, and resentment creeps in. But you and I, we've already sorted all the business of living."

"Mmm," she agrees, "been there, done that, got the t-shirt." She traces the line of his jaw with the pad of her thumb.

"Precisely. There's nothing standing in our way now. No distractions. We know what's out there, and we can do the practical bits in our sleep. So that leaves …"

"Us," she finishes for him. "I like the way you think, love."

They hold each other for another long moment before it's on with the morning. They're loaded up and out with an hour to spare after dropping off keys to the estate agent.

As they make their way north, Isobel's head is on Richard's shoulder, the sun on her face and MacTavish asleep in her lap. Richard holds the wheel with his right hand, resting his left on the seat in between them, her fingers entwined with his. Together they begin to dream of how they will fill their days making memories moment by moment.

* * *

 _ **"Life doesn't just stop when you get to a certain age. You have all the same feelings, and you want to have all the same excitements in your life … you just do it a tiny bit slower than you did before." - Dame Penelope Wilton**_


End file.
